


Frost and Fire

by Kettricken



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kettricken/pseuds/Kettricken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When magic returns to Storybrooke, the fairy tales begin to change. Things are looking a little less Grimm, a little less Disney.. a little more Hans Christian Andersen.</p><p>This is "The Snow Queen," "Once Upon A Time"-style, set during early season 2, after the disappearance of Emma and Snow. Dark fantasy, some Rumbelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Substitution

Frost and Fire

_Once upon a time there was an enchanted mirror._

_The mirror was the type that distorts the images it reflects; a type that, it is said, was first designed by malicious spirits as a mockery of God’s creation. This particular mirror was neither so devilish nor so arcane, having been made for the sake of a woman. Still, the legend does still hold some truth. For it was conceived in malice, and formed through a perversion of love – as love is not love that returns only a dumb echo of the lover’s own wish._

_The mirror was a prison for the heart of a Djin, held captive by a treacherous Queen. Bound by his obsession for her, the Djin took everything that entered the mirror’s frame and murmured it back into her ear, transforming it into rumors, mockery, and deceit. Within the gaze of that mirror, her suspicions were twisted into his espionage; her whims, his praise or slander; her enmity, his homicide. And so the more she listened to her reflection and her echo, the more she twisted and she tangled into its empty heart, fomenting power, malevolence, and the end of the world. So much for the queen, and so much for her love._

_Soon enough, a great curse fell over all the land, blasting it into oblivion. With a great tug, the Djin was ripped from his mirror. And that might have been the end of this story; but as he burst out, a small corner of the glass, almost unnoticed, shattered - sending tiny shards and slivers flying across the firmament. There, the glass shards fell onto rich earth and green trees, and also onto heads, and hands, and eyes – still steeped in the icy poison of their history. They wormed their way inward like a rot._

_Fortunately, in this new world, the shards of the enchanted mirror could have little influence. There was no magic, and so the shards were blind – cold, deadening, but without malice. Perhaps a builder might wonder why all his floors went subtly askew; or a chef, why her soups tasted flat; and this was all._

_But then, magic returned…  
_

* * *

1\. The Substitution

One of the biggest headaches caused by the sudden disappearance of Mary Margaret was also the most mundane: the need for a long-term substitute teacher to take her class. The other teachers in Henry’s grade complained of their increased class sizes, caused by taking on her students; and since the chaos of magic’s return had not, in fact, caused Maine’s Department of Education to make a special exemption to the tally of mandatory class days for K-12, the Storybrooke School District had a problem. Emails were sent. Favors were called in. 

The first few attempts at a replacement did not go well. Henry and his cohort, now that their memories had been restored, abruptly found that they had a great deal of experience in the art of annoying substitute teachers. More than one eager young educator left in frustrated tears. But then, week after Snow and Emma had vanished into the crown of a hat, Mr. Feuerstein arrived.

Mr. Feuerstein was not so young as the others, but he had jet-black hair, a way of craning his head forward while he smoothed it back with his fingertips, and long, broad hands. He was an unemployed art teacher from Bangor. Henry’s immediate thought was that Mr. Feuerstein looked like a weasel. The girls in the class, on the other hand, seemed to feel differently about him.

On the first day, Mr. Feuerstein was confronted by a crude chalkboard drawing of himself. He responded with a long lesson on proportions in portraiture, using Paige and then Helen as his models. The portraits were stunning. The girls blushed furiously. Seven more hands immediately shot up.

“But we’re supposed to be doing social studies,” whispered Henry.

“Shhh,” said Gretel. “I know Ms. Blanchard wouldn’t approve, and she’s your grandmother now or whatever, but don’t spoil it for the rest of us.”

The second day was supposed to be math and earth science. Instead of teaching, Mr. Feuerstein read aloud out of the textbook, making funny voices and stupid faces. Everyone laughed. The class took a long and early recess.

“Mr. Feuerstein is sooo great,” said Gerda. Gretel and Paige giggled. No, not Paige anymore, but Grace: the three “G girls”, a giggling gaggle of them. 

“I think he’s actually kind of mean,” Henry suggested. 

“He’s just being funny,” said Grace, who was wearing a fashionable new cloche. “He’s not like the other teachers; he’s sort of nuts. I like it.”

“Well, but what if he makes fun of our homework when he gets home, too?” Henry said. “You wouldn’t like it if you were the one getting targeted.”

“Henry, we understand that you miss Ms. Blanchard,” said Gretel, condescendingly. “And it’s to-o-o-otally understandable. But you shouldn’t take it out on an awesome teacher like Mr. Feuerstein. Don’t you see how unfair that is?”

“No, that isn’t it at all!” Henry said. “He’s mean and he’s stupid and I don’t think he’s even a real teacher!”

“Whatever,” said Gretel. “It’s not like your mom is the real mayor, either. She’s just evil. Also, she tried to get me and my brother eaten by a witch.”

“And she got my dad’s head chopped off,” Grace chimed in.

“Yeah,” said Gerda, though there was a glimmer of regret in her eye – or maybe it was just dust? - “Whatever, Henry.” 

“For the last time, that’s not my real mom!” Henry yelled after them as the three girls flounced away across the schoolyard. They didn’t turn. “Seriously?” he shouted at their backs.

At home that afternoon he made at least a hundred circles with little angry faces in them all across his math homework until David stopped him and fixed him a sandwich and sat him down to talk about it.

“Why are girls like that?” Henry asked. “Grace and Gerda aren’t stupid. Gretel kind of is though. But Gerda’s usually pretty nice to me; I don’t understand.”

To Henry’s surprise and consternation, David burst out laughing, and had to go get them both a glass of water before he could calm down.

“God, I was worried that this was going to be about Snow and Emma,” said David. “What a relief - Henry, you don’t need to worry about this. Try to forget about it and put it out of your mind, it’s totally harmless. Don’t you remember how idiotically Mary Margaret and I behaved when we were falling in love last winter?” He shook his head, amused. “That’s all this is – your friends have a crush on your teacher. You just need to be a little careful what you say – even twelve-year-old girl love is still love, and trust me, nothing is going to get between those girls and Mr. Feuerstein. If I were you, I’d back off a bit.”

Henry cocked his head, remembering. “But back then, that was different,” he insisted. “It only seemed like you were acting stupid because of the curse. You and Snow were really married; you were supposed to be together.”

“Trust me,” David smiled. “In this case, it might not be true, eternal love, but it’s still completely normal. Don’t borrow trouble, Henry; we have enough of our own, with your mom and Snow missing. Okay?” 

“But he really is a terrible teacher,” Henry insisted. “I think he has an ulterior motive. Why did he come to Storybrooke?”

“I’ll look into it,” said Charming, drily.

 _Yeah,_ Henry sighed. _Just like Emma used to “look into things,” back when she didn’t believe in the curse…_

On the third day, they dropped the planned curriculum entirely and painted. The subject was supposed to be a vase of flowers that Mr. Feuerstein had put on the desk, but Henry, never much given to artistic inclinations, amused himself mixing colors and using them to draw a rainbow assortment of jagged lines down the page, and peeked around him at the others’ work. Helen was stuck on the glass vase, painting the same reflection over and over in different proportions. Gretel was trying to paint Mr. Feuerstein. Henry rolled his eyes. 

Gerda’s painting was already very good – there was something about the way she had caught the contours of one white lily that made it seem to catch the light of the canvas, to emerge out of it like a living thing in its own right. When the class left for the cafeteria, Mr. Feuerstein kept her behind. They were both hunched over the painting, and Mr. Feuerstein was speaking almost inaudibly into her ear.

Henry ate his sandwich quickly, ignoring the bustle of the lunchroom, then crept back down the hall. Mr. Feuerstein had gone; Gerda was alone in the classroom, covering her canvas with harsh strokes of grey paint. Her face was flushed, and her eyes looked very red.

“What did Mr. Feuerstein say?” asked Henry.

“Nothing,” said Gerda. “It’s not about him. I’m not a very good painter.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Henry said. His heart sank; it was like the old days, everything going wrong, everyone ignoring him, bad things happening all the time, and nobody believing the truth… 

Grey paint beheaded a yellow carnation. 

“I told you before,” Henry repeated, “you can’t, don’t listen to him, there’s something wrong - wrong with him, or about him, I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s bad. Please, trust me.”

Gerda paused. “I think,” she said, “that Mr. Feuerstein is very sad.” 

Henry recoiled. Despite his grandfather’s admonition, he couldn’t stop the words tumbling from his mouth. “What? How can you look at an evil person like that, someone who’s only interested in being mean to everybody around him, and still think about his feelings? How can you not see what’s going on?”

Gerda put her brush in the water jar. The grey was complete. “Henry,” she said, “nobody cares about your stupid theories. Come on, we all know you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist since you were what, two years old? Maybe it’s about time for you to actually find one that works.”

Henry felt as if all the blood in his torso were draining down into his toes, leaving him stiff and cold. He had not explicitly told the other kids about Dr. Hopper, even though all the adults kept explaining to him therapy was nothing to be ashamed of – Archie, Regina, Emma too – but it was one of those too-cautious explanations that only brings back the reality of what it denies, like “don’t be afraid of that monster, you know, the one sitting right over there with the very sharp teeth – see?” Henry had gotten the message: don’t worry, kid, but keep your mouth shut. Now, with his hands trembling, he understood why: the real truth couldn’t always stop a lie from hurting you. And no matter how blatantly unfair that was – his theories had been _right!_ Regina had been _evil!_ – it didn’t matter. 

“All right,” he said.

Then Gerda turned - 

_\- turned her bleeding eyes toward him, wiping a streak of red absently down her right eyelid and across her temple –_

\- and he gasped, “Gerda,” and stepped backwards, all shame driven out of him, as if his soul had been hit by a gust of cold wind.

“Get lost,” she snapped.

He did not wait for the rest of the class to return from recess.

* * *

In his room, Henry flipped frantically through Mary Margaret’s fairy-tale book, but there was nothing in it, nothing helpful at all– no evil teachers, no bloody eyes, no sudden cruelty, nobody named Gerda, no schoolgirl crushes gone horribly wrong. Charming didn’t know, either, when Henry called him frantic and made him come home; but he seemed to at least be taking the matter a bit more seriously, which was gratifying. He called up Red to send her nosing around the school. And finally, after pacing four times around the entire apartment, Charming called Regina, too, just to rule out the possibility of her involvement. That phone call earned him an earful that Henry could hear from his bedroom.

Henry closed the book in frustration. “If only Pinocchio were still around,” he said. “He would know. He always knew what was really going on.”

“Maybe,” said Charming. “But you know, Pinocchio’s not the only story expert in town anymore. Didn’t you hear about our new librarian?” He pulled an arm into his jacket. “I asked Regina to look up the town records to find Gerda’s address – I’m going to check on the family right now. I could drop you off at the library on the way. I think it’s worth a shot, Henry, your book never led us wrong before.”

* * *

Not five minutes later, Henry was pushing open the library doors, his own book, hanging in its satchel, bumping up against his thighs as he ran.

The building remained in terrible shape. The lower floor’s windows were boarded to cover missing panes, and dust billowed, it didn’t just eddy, in the light that fell from the second floor. The main atrium was a huge heaping mess of old books that seemed to have been thrown to the ground from several emptied shelves off to the left. In the midst of this dim chaos stood a single table occupied only by an old laptop roughly the size of a small briefcase, which whirred along merrily, all alone.

Henry came around to the screen side, clambering over a small mountain of multilingual dictionaries as he did so, and hit the spacebar. On the screen was a spreadsheet. _Alcott,_ he read. _Little Men. Alcott, Little Women, 2 copies. Aldiss, Frankenstein Unbound. Aleman…_

“I haven’t made it past Aristotle.”

Henry jumped around. The woman standing behind him had unkempt hair and piercing eyes, and she was smiling, just barely, a little crinkle at the corners of her mouth. She carried a steaming mug. 

“Sorry,” she said, and transferred the mug to her left hand, extending her right. “How rude of me. I’m Belle.” 

“Henry,” he said, taking it. “You sound kind of like Mr. Gold.” 

“I suppose, a little. We’re from the same part of the world, originally.” 

“Originally originally?” 

She smiled all the way. “Are you interested in books, Henry?”

“Definitely,” he said. He plunked his satchel onto the table, pulled out the fairy tale book, and without further ado, launched into the full saga. 

As he spoke, the smile fell from her face; she began to leaf through the pages, furrowing her brow, as if looking at words let her listen more deeply.

“And you say Regina is… your mother?” she asked at last.

Henry sighed. “Adoptive,” he said. “Why, did she do something awful to you?”

“So they tell me.” Belle closed the book with a snap. “Henry, I think I understand why you’ve had difficulty researching this. I can’t help noticing that all the stories in your book come from Grimm – that is, these are all versions of stories that were collected, in this world at least, by two brothers in nineteenth century Germany. It’s an amazing collection, and ah – seems to be one highly relevant to your family history, but it’s only a tiny, tiny fraction of the fairy tales in the world. Now, it just so happens the story you want isn’t in Grimm. You want Hans Christian Andersen.” She grinned. “And that’s Andersen, A-N: you’re in luck. You can find the book on the second shelf, third from the bottom.”

Henry jumped over the dictionaries, half diving for the shelf.

“I believe the story you want is called ‘The Snow Queen,’” said Belle. “But it’s a fairly long one, and a cold one, too – do you want me to get you some hot chocolate? I could run back over to Granny’s for it. We don’t get many visitors here yet.”

“But… isn’t this a library?” Henry held up the volume. “Can’t I just take it home?” 

Belle looked surprised. “Technically, we’re not open for loans yet,” she said. “But I suppose I could let you borrow it from me – hm. Actually, how would you feel about a trade? I’d love to look at that remarkable book of yours a little closer, if that’s all right.” 

Henry hesitated.

“One night?” Belle urged. “I promise I’ll be nice to it. After all, I am a librarian. Come back tomorrow, and you’ll find every page in its place.” 

“I guess I do know all the stories in it,” he hedged. “And it’s not like it’s a big secret anymore. Now that everybody remembers. It just… feels wrong to leave it. My grandmother gave it to me, you know.” 

Belle put her hands in her lap. “Henry, I won’t force you to give up something important to you,” she said. “I just have a friend I thought might be interested in taking a look at it. Here, take the Andersen book – it’s all right. I trust you.”

Henry cocked his head. “No, I think it’s okay,” he said. “I think I trust you, too. But will you swear you’ll have it back for me tomorrow?” 

“I swear.” She extended her pinky finger.

“No,” said Henry. “This is serious. Shake on it.” 

Solemnly, the boy and the young woman shook hands.

* * *

In the two hours it took Charming to get back from Gerda’s house, Henry walked home, made his own cocoa, with cinnamon on top, and ploughed straight through most of “The Snow Queen.” The words of the tale washed over him until he traveled alongside the fictional Gerda through cold stream, sheltered garden, and the gait of a reindeer, close on the heels of cruel, frozen Kay. 

It was enough, the part of himself that remained aloof from the story thought – only just enough, one name and one wounded eye, but it would have to do. But how could Kay have come from outside Storybrooke, and why hadn’t they been granted their happy ending? Perhaps if this cursed Kay hadn’t managed, there, to escape the thrall of the Queen – if Gerda hadn’t found him, if she were only finding him now, here, in the mundane world of Storybrooke – the ages were off, the story elements subtly shifted, but there must be a way to resolve it, to bring Kay and Gerda together. How to do it?

So intent was he on the story’s ending, he barely heard his grandfather come in. 

“Henry,” said Charming. 

“I know what’s going on,” Henry blurted out, not caring that he was interrupting. “I think Mr. Feuerstein is Kay. I don’t know how he got out of Storybrooke and escaped the curse, but if he and Gerda can just realize that they’ve found one another, it will melt the mirror, and everything will be okay again – “

“Henry.” Charming put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, calm and steady. “Gerda and Mr. Feuerstein did find one another. Paige’s father saw them through his telescope. They crossed the town line together. Gerda was riding on the back of his motorcycle.”

Henry dropped the book onto the table, clattering the spoon against the side of his mug. “No,” he said. “That isn’t how it happens. It’s Kay who is infected with the shard. It’s Kay who rides away in the Snow Queen’s sleigh. Gerda is supposed to follow them afterwards. And it’s supposed to have happened already, not be happening now.” 

Charming shook his head. “That poor girl will have lost everything when she crossed the town line; all her memories, gone. And she is far too young to be riding away with a middle-aged man. I don’t like this at all, but there isn’t much we can do about it, given our… unique circumstances. I’ve already alerted the Maine state police. Gerda’s parents are with Red, she’s trying to talk them down.”

Henry was not listening; a chill was creeping up his arm and along his spine, as if rising out of the pages of the storybook, to shiver at the base of his skull. “No… Gerda is Kay. Kay is the Queen. Grandpa, listen: the fairy tales are happening right here in Storybrooke.” 

Charming lifted his hand from Henry’s shoulder. “What do you mean?” 

“Because of Rumplestiltskin,” said Henry. “He brought the magic back, and now everything is changing. The stories aren’t just things that happened back in the old lands. They’re happening here, now. That means a book can’t tell us what the happy ending is supposed to be anymore.” He looked up, his face white. “All the stories – it means they’re _changing.”_


	2. The Sorcerer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gold enters the story, with powerful motives of his own...

Mr. Gold had no time.

From dawn until seven, coffee in hand, he scoured the daily blogs and newspapers, searching for the little tidbits of information that made his trade: the C.E.O.’s hidden mistress, the technological innovation poised to revolutionize one industry or another, the ponderous movements of markets, the alchemical shifts of knowledge and information that made up worldly power. Over breakfast, he made the necessary adjustments to his portfolio. Then after breakfast it was the daily round to his real estate – today, the arrival of a crew of workmen slated to repair the plumbing at the convent, where a new boiler had burst old pipes. The contractor was overcharging him. That would not stand. Midmorning, collecting delinquent rents on Pine Street; late morning, preparing the shop to open at noon; and then a stream of customers, looking for this and that – oddly, the return of memories had encouraged customers more than it had scared them away. Not all fairy tale characters were good; and many people held desires that a trinket with the odor of magic still on it might assist in fulfilling, and many others had dark fears and the deeper desire for protection, no matter the cost. (Especially with Regina back in play, he mused.) It was 3:15 when, looking up for a moment from a book of accounts, he heard the schoolchildren rushing home outside his door– the shouts of ten-year-old boys, the high laughter of the girls –

            He paused then, startled, as if pinned to the wall of his shop, the lines on his cheeks poised in sharp stillness.

            Mr. Gold had no time. Rumplestiltskin had far too much.

            But then, at 3:15 it was nearly four, and four, four, well; time to put the sign on the door – the sign that read “back in ten minutes,” ten minutes which inevitably stretched to thirty, the pleasantly slow arithmetic of visiting with Belle.

            She was waiting for him, bent over the computer yes but with her hand at the ready, looking up with a shy smile to accept the cup of coffee, then turning away as if she did not want to show him too much kindness yet. Yet.

            “I have something to show you,” she said. “Did you know that Henry Mills has been carrying around a remarkable book?”

            It was sitting underneath the laptop. She pulled it aside – revealing the laptop. He extended his hand, and his skin prickled with the magic of it.

            “Careful, dearie,” he murmured: an old reflex, falling into the old ways – he floundered for self control, and looked up, all Mr. Gold again. “This is a live thing.”

            “Yes, I rather suspected so,” said Belle, coming close beside him. She opened the cover. “Henry let me borrow it from him earlier this afternoon. It’s a book full of all the stories – well, many of them – from the old lands. The ones that I remembered were true. Many of them take place after my imprisonment. I didn’t know all of these.”

            He held himself very still. “And me?”

            “Yes, you’re in it,” she said, matter of fact. That was all Belle, he thought; she would not be shocked until she had thought through it, weighted the facts of it, considered the balance. She had an arithmetic of her own.

            “What I’m wondering,” she continued, her voice light, “is whether you made it. Is it part of the curse?”

            He turned the pages. The illustrations seemed to move under his hands, Snow and Charming and Red, their eyes like needles into his memory.

            “Oh, no,” he said. “I didn’t make this. Not intentionally, that is. But it is part of the curse.” He raised his eyebrows. “Magic isn’t chemistry, you know. It’s more like a living creature. You bargain, you plead, you make your request. You pay the money for the effect you desire, but what the magic does with the rest of it?” he shrugged – “the magic has its own motives that we cannot fathom ourselves.”

            “Kind of like you, then.”

            “Yes,” he said, curt. He closed the book.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bring up ghosts from the past. I only thought – did you want to borrow it, or – “

            “No, I think not,” he said. “But thank you. No need to apologize.” There was nothing in the book he did not already know.

            Everything had gone awkward again. Mr. Gold excused himself.

 

* * *

Rumplestiltskin could not sleep. All night he felt the call of the wheel – his fingertips itched and flexed where he had touched the book, calling for the spindle, the threads flying and turning in his mind. He had promised, though; he would not. Why had she shown him the book? It had reeked of magic, when _she_ had been the one who asked, she had asked him, she had begged him not to –

When someone knocked sharply on his back door, it came almost as a relief to him.

It was not quite dawn, very grey and cold. On his back stoop stood David Nolan and Regina Mills.

David looked frantic – or about frantic as David ever managed to look, anyway, which meant vague concern hung over his eyebrows and he turned his head nervously this way and that every half minute or so. How the man had ever mustered the kind of passion requisite for true love had always been a mystery to Rumplestiltskin. Regina, meanwhile, looked cold and terrible; which meant, of course, that she was also, then, frantic.

Mr. Gold invited them in.

“Henry is missing,” Regina clipped him off. “He ran away again. In the middle of the night. Under Charming’s watch.”

            “I recall you didn’t do much better,” David muttered.

            “Yes, yes; Henry is a challenging child,” said Mr. Gold. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

            “Don’t play that game with me.” Regina pushed past him into the room, half shoving David along with her, and slammed the door behind them all. “I want you to find him. I know you’ve done location magic before in Storybrooke.”

            “And why should I do that?” he said – to watch the way her nostrils swelled in incumbent fury, like a horse’s nostrils; then added, conciliatory - “No matter. I can’t. I am unable to see past the borders of town with magic. Believe me, I’ve tried.” 

            David sighed. As the breath left him, he seemed to sink several inches into himself.  “Sorry, Regina. We’ve got no choice but to leave it to the police. They’re already tracking Gerda and Mr. Feuerstein, and Henry probably is, too. They’ll find him.”

            Regina pinned her glare on Rumplestiltskin. “No thanks,” she said.

            “You’re not welcome,” he replied, pleasantly. “Who’s Mr. Feuerstein?”

            Regina would have none of telling him anything, but David, with a calming hand on her arm, got her to turn away from the door; and it was David who patiently told him about the odd substitute teacher, Gerda’s bloody eyes, and then Belle and her book.

            “Ulterior motive,” he mused aloud. “That kid has a nice vocabulary.”

            “Thank you,” said Regina, automatically.

            Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

            Regina snorted, half in amusement – it was almost the same gesture she had used as his student, Mr. Gold reflected, in those rare and well-earned moments when she had surprised him with her skill, and he had praised her for it. But she recovered quickly from the old routine.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, “for a collosal waste of my time. I’m going after him.”

            “You’ll lose your memory,” objected David.

            “Oh, you think so?” she raised an eyebrow. “Well, think again, Prince Charming. This is my curse. I never had a cover identity. I’ve got nothing to lose at the town line. I can leave whenever I want.”  With a slam of the door, she was gone.

            Rumplestiltskin grinned. It was not a nice expression.

            David wheeled on him, grabbing him by the elbows. “A spell,” he said. “Something to let me cross the boundary with her. Come on, Rumplestiltskin, you know you can’t let… that… loose on the mundane world. They have no idea what’s coming out there, she’s going to rip them to shreds.”

            “Sorry, dear,” he said, still grinning. “Can’t be done. You didn’t think I’d still be here if it could be, did you?”

            “But Henry said –“ David fumbled for the words – “he said, ‘the fairy tales are changing.’ Maybe it’s time to change them. Maybe it’s time to do something different.”

            “Like what, exactly?” as he spoke, his grin fell, and his voice sank with it. The too-bright world of his madness turned grey around him again. “Fine words are well and good for heroes, Charming. I’m not one of those. I’m only the sorcerer.”

            “No.” David stepped back, rapping his knuckles on the table. His cheeks were high and red. “I’m not letting you out of this that easily, okay? This is my grandson’s life on the line we’re talking about. Emma and Snow will kill me if I don’t get him back. Think through it with me, now. Henry said it was your magic that made the stories change, so I say if Kay Feuerstein can be the Snow Queen, you can damn well be the hero.”

            … _Kay_ Feuerstein?

            He sensed the walls of the little room shrinking like bars around him. David was still talking, but all he could hear was his own breath in his skull.

            Feuerstein. Fire-stone, no more than that. Kay Fire Stone. Shift one consonant – the slightest of disguises; a “B” to a “K”, the better to suit the storybook, the Storybrooke, to gain passage into a locked town – Kay, Mr. Fire. _Baelfire._

            “Ulterior motives,” he whispered.

            “ – and then Gerda meets a reindeexcuse me?”

            “We have to go,” Mr. Gold said. He cast his eyes frantically around the table. A compass – yes; no, better: a smartphone. A padded case for flasks. A purse of gold; always good to have on hand.

            “That’s right, we do!” David said. “Wait… where, exactly?”

            Mr. Gold paused; and suddenly the thought that had been itching at his fingertips all night exploded into clarity in his mind. “The library,” he said.

 

* * *

 

            He could barely contain himself on the brief walk across town. The evidence was slim, it was … really rather absurdly slim when you thought about it, but it felt right to him; the strange desire to see without quite being seen, to leave just that little hint of a signature on the scene, these things were absurdly familiar to him; the urge to leave that tiny hint that might unravel the whole chain, if pulled, that was the thrill of the game. To squeeze through that dangerous deal on the vaguest whisper of a promise of riches – oh, yes, that was Rumplestiltskin all over. Bae was playing at his father’s game, dropping him the clue instead of the straight-up declaration. If this was truly the boy’s gambit, kidnapping and baiting the trap, he was not seeking a long-lost father – no, not at all. Bae was hunting the monster.

            “Wishful thinking,” he whispered. “Too much? Not enough?”

            David, who had been shooting him sidelong glances for several blocks, couldn’t take it any more. “Give me something to work with, okay?” he said. “Why the library?”

            A dry grin ran over his face, then gone. “To get a book, of course,” he said.

            David rolled his eyes. They walked on.

            “You see, it depends,” said Mr. Gold, “on whether this is my story, or Henry’s story. When I see the book, I may be able to tell. Henry’s side of the story has a lot going for it – the archetypes of Kay and Gerda, the injured eye, the quest of friendship – if that’s what it is, all we can do is help him, or else muck it up. Ah, but my side… very little to go on there. Puns and rumors and suspicion; but those are the tricks of my trade, you see, so it suffices also. Not enough becomes too much. It could be my story, not Henry’s. And if it is indeed mine, then I am the seeker and I must go, no matter what that brings to Henry’s side of it. But this is, of course, absolutely contingent on my ability to actually leave town and do the seeking. D’you follow?”

            David walked forward for several paces. The day was cool and clear. “Not in the slightest,” he said at last, “but I believe you know what you’re talking about, and if you can get us past the town line, that’s good enough for me.”

            Mr. Gold considered this a moment. “Fair enough.”

            Belle met them at the door to the library, wearing what was clearly an old jacket of Granny’s over flannel pajamas and rain boots. She had Henry’s book in her arms.

            “Got your text,” she said. “Changed your mind?”

            His fingers jerked at the sight of it. Oh, the beautiful book – another thing that had been Henry’s, another thing that he hoped against all hope might actually, through some secret beneficence of the deities of magic, be for _him_.

            “Belle,” he said. “Bless you, yes. You don’t know what you’ve done for me.”

            He took it from her – his hands trembling, she looking on in worry – and exhaled just a hint of breath over the words on the first page. They danced and shivered in the breeze, “t”’s pulling at their roots and “s”’s reaching up to uncoil, and he shut it, hurriedly, as the pulse raced in his neck.

            “Rumplestiltskin,” said Belle, “what on earth is going on?”

            He turned to face them. David looked skeptical, Belle, calm but concerned.

            “This is a spellbook,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world – which, of course, to a sorcerer, it was. “A spellbook made of _all our memories_. With this we can cross the town line: we simply blow the words off the paper and into our heads, and we’ll remember the past we’ve lost. Ladies and gentlemen: this book is our front door key.”

            “We’re going after Henry and Regina,” said Charming. Ah, dawn at last.

            “Yes,” said Rumplestiltskin. _We’re going after Bae_.

 


End file.
